


The Tea Party

by sirenofodysseus



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Bloodplay, Cannibalism, Cannibalism Puns, Gen, graphic description of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 08:32:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8394625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenofodysseus/pseuds/sirenofodysseus
Summary: "You’re a lousy houseguest, Wayne. You offer to help, and then, oops, you fall asleep?" Written for the Spook Me Multi-Fandom Halloween Ficathon 2016.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Because I decided on cannibalism for a prompt, this story was born. This story is not for the faint of heart; it involves a lot of torture, violence and over all, a lot of puns. My lack of warning tags is mainly because I want the story to be one giant surprise. ;)

 

                “I’m worried about her,” Wayne Rigsby commented to Kimball Cho, after Grace Van Pelt had disappeared around the corner and into the elevator. Cho glanced up from his desk, appearing almost unconcerned. “It’s been nearly a month and she’s still _so_ …”

            “Quiet? Distant?” Cho questioned and Rigsby nodded with a frown, while Cho merely raised an eyebrow in his direction. “She shot and killed her fiancé, who shot her boss, all because he worked for Red John.” Rigsby said nothing. “And Lisbon just informed her, the body of her ex-fiancé has gone missing from the morgue. How would you feel?”

            “I certainly wouldn’t be jumping for joy, or accepting lunch invitations from gentleman callers any time soon,” Patrick Jane pointed out from his leather couch, his eyes focused on the book in his hands. Of course, Jane’s inattentiveness made him feel as if he could openly glare at the blonde consultant without repercussions. Jail, in his opinion, hadn’t been a good enough of a punishment for a man, who had not only cheated the court system but had also caused Grace more heartache that necessary. “She obviously wants to move on, Rigsby, but how can she?” He flipped the page. “A lost love is not exactly like a broken engagement. After all, the heart was meant to be broken—not be torn to shreds.” Jane glanced upwards, forcing Rigsby to glance away. The last thing he needed (or wanted) was Lisbon’s ire, because he just couldn’t control his anger with the consultant.

            “Life advice from Patrick Jane,” Lisbon idly commented, as she stepped into the bullpen. Rigsby glanced at her, half-expecting her arm to be in the sling still, but she had apparently discarded it before re-approaching them. “I honestly never thought I’d live to see the day.”

            “It was technically advice from Oscar Wilde, Lisbon,” Jane replied, smiling at her. “However, I won’t lie. Jail time was cathartic. You have no idea how refreshing the outside world is, until you’re sitting behind the bars with only a harmonica to your name and a cellmate named Bubba.”

            “You were there for four days,” Cho corrected.

            Jane eyed him. “Four days, three hours and thirty-nine seconds, but who’s counting?” Lisbon rolled her eyes, before she glanced at Rigsby.

            “She’ll come around, Rigs. Just give her time, alright?”

Rigsby sighed, glancing downwards in frustration. This mopey and quick-tempered Grace wasn’t _his_ — _their—_ Grace and he honestly wasn’t appreciating her treatment of him. Lisbon might have been okay with Grace’s temper, but he honestly cared for her and he couldn’t understand _why_ she just wouldn’t let him in.

            “In the meantime,” Jane interrupted his reverie, sounding cheerful. “You do have a case for us, don’t you?”

            It was Lisbon’s turn to sigh. “Please don’t act all cheerful at a crime scene again. The Clover’s felt your behavior was extremely inappropriate, considering the evisceration of their youngest son.” Rigsby’s stomach rolled. Even _recalling_ the Alex Clover case made him queasy;  the sixteen-year old son had been gutted from head to toe, all of his entails (aside from his large intestine) had been found smeared along the crème walls of the family’s kitchen, by his twin sister Abigail. Rigsby watched Jane open his mouth, before Lisbon silenced him. “You’ve already pressed your luck once with the jury. Don’t press your luck with me, because I guarantee, you won’t win.”

            “Duly noted, Lisbon,” Jane admitted defeat with a small smile. “I promise I’ll try to act somber and unamused, when we find yet _another_ large intestine in the throes of a four-year-old’s Easy Bake Oven.” Even Lisbon seemed to cringe at Jane’s tasteless (yet truthful) statement and instead of responding, she rolled her eyes at him. “I’m kidding. I promise you I’ll try to be a little bit more respectful next time of the dead, even though they _are_ dead.”

            “I’m not even going to waste my breath,” Lisbon answered, before she turned away from Jane to grimace. “However, Jane’s right. We’re up. Stabbing between 9th and Emerson Avenue.”

            “Oh fun,” Jane replied, rubbing his hands together. “A real stabbing. Haven’t seen one of _those_ since before Bertram thought county jail was an appropriate holding place.” Rigsby watched Lisbon’s jaw clench, while Jane smiled. “Asinine, really.”

            “Come on,” Lisbon said, ignoring Jane again. “We better solve this one fast; otherwise, we’ll be attending yet another Shettrick image seminar.” Rigsby stood up from his desk, grabbing his jacket, before he turned to Lisbon.

            “Should I call Grace?”

            Lisbon shook her head. “I’ve texted the address that we’ll be at to her. If she wants to join us, she can.” Lisbon turned on her heels and left the bullpen, before Jane stepped over to him.  Rigsby felt Jane’s hand on his shoulder.

            “Grace is fine, Rigsby,” Jane assured him. “A little shaken, but she’ll be back to normal in no time at all.” Rigsby tore his shoulder away from Jane’s grasp. “There’s no need to be rude, Rigsby.” Under his breath, Rigsby _almost_ muttered what he thought of Jane; but riling up the consultant was almost like opening Pandora’s Box and that was the last thing anyone on the unit needed, especially after Lisbon having almost lost her job _because_ of Jane. So instead, he offered the consultant a slight apology before following in Lisbon’s footsteps.

 

::::

 

            The vibration from his phone nearly caught him off guard, as he slammed his phone down on the nightstand and jerked the tie from around his neck. He half-expected a text from Lisbon, reprimanding him for his behavior with Jane earlier, but Grace’s name on the screen filled him with an overwhelming sense of relief and calmness.

 

__

 

           

 

            While he waited for Grace’s response to his questions, he unlaced his shoes and flopped onto the bed. He stared at his phone screen. Would Grace even respond? Lately, she had taken to ignoring his text messages – not that he blamed her or hated her for it. He understood. He had done the same thing after his mother had died, years ago; sometimes, it was just _easier_ to pretend everything was fine and shut out the world than actually discuss the heartache behind everything.

 

 

            He snorted and thought, _liar_.

 

 

            Rigsby’s fingers flew across the screen.

 

            Lisbon probably hadn’t been the _most_ understanding person, when they could have used an extra hand to corral Jane. The consultant, however, as Cho had rightfully pointed out, had been gunning to blame the Police Chief for the stabbing of his deputy from the get-go. Unfortunately (or fortunately, for him), the Police Chief hadn’t reacted in good jest.

 

 

            Rigsby frowned at Grace’s reply. Since O’Laughlin’s death, he had sat through countless interrogations for his actions on that particular day. He had explained, over and over again, that O’Laughlin had been a mole for Red John and that Grace hadn’t a clue; but it seemed the FBI only wanted to make one of them a patsy. The fact the FBI wanted to _blame_ Grace for the death of their agent, instead of launching an investigation against the rest of Red John’s associates, made his blood boil. Grace was a good person, who was _hurting_. If he could see that, why couldn’t the FBI? Or Director Bertram?

 

 

 

            Without a second thought, Rigsby scrambled to get off his bed and slip on his shoes. After weeks and _weeks_ of him trying to get her help, of him trying to _help_ her, she was finally asking for it. His heart ached. What had happened after she had left the building earlier? Had the FBI questioned her more? He didn’t hesitate telling her yes. He _did_ , however, hesitate telling her that he’d be there in fifteen minutes—even if it meant he had to run all kinds of red lights for her.

            (Because Grace was _worth_ all kinds of speeding tickets, in his opinion.)

 

::::

 

            “Hey,” Rigsby greeted Grace, the moment after she had ushered him into her apartment with a bone-crushing hug. He didn’t hesitate kissing the top of her head in greeting, before they pulled apart and she took his jacket from him with a smile. Grace stood before him, dressed in a terry cloth robe. “Stupid question, but how are you doing? Really?”

            Her smile instantly faltered. “I’ve been cooking again.” He said nothing to her. Rigsby had smelt something burning in the hallway, but he had thought nothing of it. Grace used cooking to serve as an outlet; much like he used football or Cho used books to escape the stresses from the horrors of the job.

            “It’s okay,” he told her with a small smile. She smiled at him again, before she led him into the living room. Rigsby took a seat on her crème couch. “What are you cooking tonight?”

            “Finger sandwiches,” she explained. Rigsby pulled a slight face at the idea of _vegetables_ on any sandwich, forcing her to laugh. Grace’s odd habits as a vegetarian still made him scratch his head. How could anyone just hate meat? It was inhumane and just plain weird. “You shouldn’t knock them until you try them, Wayne.” She turned to face the coat closet, immediately hanging his jacket away from both of their sights.

            “If you’re offering a chance to try them,” Rigsby said, forcing her to glance at him. “I guess I’ll have one.” She looked almost pained for a moment, before she brightly smiled at him. “Sorry to burst your bubble, Grace, but I’m _not_ about to become a vegetarian. I’m just attempting to prevent you from telling me I am what I eat.”

            She seemed to mull over his words for a moment. “Alright. I think I have one even you’d appreciate.” Rigsby opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, she had already disappeared into the kitchen. He couldn’t see into the kitchen from where he sat, however his mouth watered from all of the delicious aromas in the air. He had _begged_ Cho to stop earlier for dinner, but the stoic agent had ignored him, forcing Rigsby to rely on the stale health snacks Grace kept in the glove compartment for emergencies. He’d never admit it to Grace, but he’d probably be okay with eating a vegetable if meant his stomach would just stop rumbling. “This is my first time making one of these, so you’ll have to tell me what you think,” he heard her say, as she stepped from the kitchen with a crème plate in hand.

            Rigsby stared at the petite sandwich and his mouth watered again. She had actually managed to add _meat_ to a sandwich, which normally held no meat at all. “What are you talking about, Grace? It looks perfect.” He took the plate from her with a smile. “Is it alright if I eat it now?”

            Grace nodded. “Of course, Wayne. It’s for you, after all.” His smile widened as he removed the small sandwich from Grace’s plate and shoved it into his mouth. “Do you like it?” Rigsby blinked at her wide smile. Truthfully, he wasn’t entirely _too_ sure what to think; he could taste the bread, the mayonnaise, the lettuce and the cheese—but whatever meat Grace had chosen as a filler was tender, and unlike anything he had ever tried before.

            It took him a few minutes, before he could respond without spewing Grace with bits of sandwich. “What was that?” He watched her smile falter briefly and his heart ached again. If O’Laughlin hadn’t already been dead, Rigsby would have _gladly_ killed him all over again—all for hurting his kind-hearted Grace. Instead of immediately asking about the sandwich again, he offered her a kind smile. “I enjoyed it, I promise. I just wanted to know about the meat you…” He stopped when she suddenly burst into a frenzy of tears. Rigsby was quick to pull her down onto the couch and to wrap his arms around her slender figure.

            “Oh god, Wayne,” she said, her cheeks tinged pink. “I’m so sorry. Lisbon’s right, I need to take the week off…”

            “Don’t apologize,” he interrupted as she wiped her eyes. “Let us take care of you for once, alright?” Grace nodded, sniffling, before she leaned her head against his shoulder. He placed another kiss atop her head, before he joined her in silence.

            After nearly ten minutes of silence, he let out a yawn causing Grace to laugh. “Don’t feel too bad about crashing on my couch,” Grace told him, eyeing him again. He yawned once more, before his eyelids grew heavy. He tried to fight it, but Grace’s additional comment of, “sleep, Wayne. You’ll need it,” had him succumbing to unconsciousness.

 

::::

 

            When Rigsby regained consciousness, he found himself in a dark room—shirtless—and certainly not spread out on Grace’s comfortable couch. He tried to turn his head, but a taunt leather strap around his neck kept him from moving. He then attempted to jerk his entire body off whatever held him upright, but the same restraints held his chest, arms and legs spread apart. “Grace?” Rigsby called out frantically. “Anyone? Help!” Nobody said anything and then, suddenly, Grace appeared into his view. He almost let out a breath of relief. “Oh thank god, Grace. Where are we? Are you okay?”

            “Welcome back, sleepy head,” Grace told him, ignoring his questions as she moved one of her hands to ruffle his hair. He blinked at her. How could she _not_ see they were in a dire situation and needed to escape? Every cop and gut instinct of his was telling him to get the hell out of dodge immediately, as something was not right at all. “Why would you _want_ to leave? We’re going to have so much fun.” Grace disappeared into the darkness again, before she returned with a rather large white-cloth covered cart.

            “Grace?” Rigsby asked feeling rather at unease, his heart racing. “What’s going on?”

            “You’re tied down, Wayne,” she told him, as if she were explaining the weather patterns outside. “I didn’t think I needed to state the obvious to you.”

            “Why?” Rigsby questioned, feeling panic overwhelm him at Grace’s caviler attitude. Who was controlling his Grace into this state? “Grace, you are far better than whatever Red John’s telling you to do. I know you can fight this, Grace.”

            Grace only laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Wayne. What would Red John want with us?” Although he didn’t believe her at all, he could see her very valid point. Up until the presence of FBI Agent Craig O’Laughlin, everything had been about Jane and Red John—not Jane, Red John and the team. “No, trust me. I’m mostly sane.” Her sour smile made his stomach churn. “Red John, after all, wouldn’t approve of us having a tea party. Now, would he?”

            “Tea party?” Rigsby parroted weakly.

            Grace nodded, smiling. “I’ve been attempting to have a tea party for nearly two weeks now, but as you can imagine, it’s almost quite impossible when your guests are stiff as boards.” She giggled and Rigsby started to breathe heavily, hyperventilating. “Relax, Wayne. You _did_ say you wanted to help me, remember?” He _had_ , but he had also not intended on taking part in whatever was going on in her mind.

            Rigsby’s eyes widened. “What did you do, Grace?”

            She continued to smile. “It’s not what I’ve done, Wayne; it’s what I’m about to do that should concern you the most.” He watched her yank the cloth from the cart, only to reveal a shiny surface full of sharp medical tools and various knives. Rigsby’s body trembled.

            “Grace, you can’t…!”

            “I can’t what, Wayne?” She asked, sweetly, all while she fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Get you here under false pretenses? Drug you? Feed you Craig O’Laughlin’s ring finger?” She stopped to giggle again, before Rigsby nearly hyperventilated again. She had fed him _what_? “I’m sorry I didn’t get that memo, Wayne, but I’m sure I can make you understand.” Without further explanation from Grace, light flooded the room much to Rigsby’s horror.

            “Oh god,” Rigsby muttered at the horror displayed before him. Directly in his line of vision remained a cherry-oak wood stained table, burgeoning with wooden bowls full of what looked to be various butcher’s meats, several different teacups, and six tall, metal chairs, spaced evenly around the table—2 of which, held animal-masked occupants. Rigsby blinked at the abnormally still rabbit and mouse masked occupants, whom both remained upright despite being without restraints. Though Grace obviously hadn’t loosened his restraints, he tried to struggle against the leather straps again when suddenly, he noticed Grace’s lack of robe. In fact, Grace’s attire was just strange.

            Her attire, while not absolutely mindboggling, reminded him of an extremely twisted _Alice in Wonderland_ Alice costume gone terribly awry. The hem of Grace’s dress, stained dark in certain places, only came to her upper thighs as stripped black-and-white tights covered her legs. His stomach churned violently at the stains. Was it blood? Was their Grace a serial killer? He tried to imagine the woman _killing_ for a living, but his mind just came up blank.

            Almost, as if reading his mind, she snarled back, “Oh relax, it’s not blood. It’s dirt.” He watched her roll her eyes. “How in the _world_ did you ever become a cop, Wayne? Confusing blood splatter and dirt stains?” She leaned forward, revealing her ample cleavage, as she bopped him on the nose with her finger. “Silly, Agent Wayne Rigsby. Boss would be all so ashamed if she ever found out.”

            “Why don’t we call her, Grace?” Rigsby attempted to reason, trying to keep his voice level as she stepped back from him with a smile, only to examine the cart.

            “She’ll know soon enough, Wayne,” Grace answered, absent-mindedly, as she grabbed one of the scalpels on the cart. “Trust me.” She continued smiling even after she examined the scalpel and had replaced it back onto the cart, forcing Rigsby to heave a sigh of relief. “Now, be a good boy and bite your tongue. This is going to hurt.”

            Before he could object (or catch his breath), Grace pressed one of the curved skinning knives against his bare stomach and as Rigsby attempted to struggle, Grace slid the blade under the warm skin of his abdomen. He watched in horror as she eventually waved the strip of skin, freed from his body, before his eyes. Rigsby shouted in agony, his stomach burning, but Grace merely shook her head and smacked him across the face.

            “I told you to bite your tongue, Wayne,” Grace chided. “You wouldn’t want to alert the neighbors to our game, now would you?” He opened his mouth to attempt to reason with her again, when she shoved the piece of skin into his mouth, immediately making him gag. “Oh, don’t be such a baby. It’s just skin.” He tried to swallow, but the thick piece of skin refused to budge. “Would you like something to wash it down with, Wayne?”

            He attempted to scream _no_ at her, but by cutting away his boxers and pants, she obviously had no desire to be reasoned with.

            “I forget just _how_ well off you are, Wayne,” Grace idly commented as she studied his penis, before she shrugged and turned to her cart of sadistic tools. “Oh well. It’s not size that matters, it’s how you _use_ it that counts.” Then without warning, Grace spun around with a meat cleaver in hand and brought the sharp blade down with a dull _thump_ —severing his penis and testicles from his body in one swift go. Blood sprayed into the air, coating Grace’s outfit and face, which she seemed to enjoy by licking her lips, but not before Rigsby faded into unconsciousness.

 

::::

 

            Rigsby awoke with a gasp, only to find Grace leaning above him with a syringe in her hand.

            She grimaced at him. “You’re a lousy houseguest, Wayne. You offer to help, and then, _oops_ ,” she threw her hands into the air, the half-empty syringe nearly nailing him in the face with her movement, “you fall asleep? How is that helping my predicament, Wayne? Hm?”

            Before he could help himself, he blurted out, “you’re insane!” which forced Grace to tilt her head and side-eye him.

            “To you, maybe, but _what_ is the definition of insane?” Grace asked evenly, before she moved to hold up his bloody penis and testicles as if they were a pendant flag. The pain between his legs suddenly intensified, nearly forcing him to vomit.

            He glanced at Grace, almost at the point of tears. “Please. Don’t do this. You’re…you’re better than O’Laughlin…”

            Without warning, she slapped him across the face with his penis. It left a streak of blood across his cheek. “Don’t you _dare_ mention him, Wayne! Don’t. You. Dare. You have no fucking…” she paused to stare at his penis in her hands, rolling his detached balls in-between her fingers forcing Rigsby to feel a phantom heat, growing in the pit of his abdomen, which forced him to hiss. Grace blinked at him, before she placed his genitals down and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” She leaned forward to lick the blood smear off his cheek, before running her bloody hands through his hair. “He left me. Dan left me. _You_ left me. Am I _that_ naïve, Wayne?” She paused to slam her fists down upon the table, making the glassware clink together, before she smoothed out her now blood-stained dress. “But no more, Wayne. I refuse to be naïve and I refuse to be alone.” She smiled at him again, all traces of previous anger gone from her face, which caused Rigsby to blink wearily at her. “Do you want to know how?” He said nothing and so, she turned toward the cart again and fingered one of the scalpels. “Well, Wayne, do you?”

            With his heart thrashing around in his ribcage, he could barely meet Grace’s even glance. “I’ll take your silence as a yes, Wayne; of course, telling you means I’ll have to kill you…”

            “Grace,” Rigsby crocked out, absolutely terrified at the idea of his ex-lover killing him—just because their past romantic relationship hadn’t worked out. “You…don’t…”

            “ _Wayne_ ,” she mocked him, rolling her eyes for a second time. “I don’t know why, but I thought you’d be a lot stronger than the last guy.” She jerked her head to the table. “Guess the saying, _brawns over brains_ is somewhat true. We’ll just have to fix that, now won’t we?” Rigsby opened his mouth to plead again, when she grabbed ahold of the hammer and swung it at his right kneecap without hesitation, the kneecap instantly shattering with a loud _crack_.

            Following, the sound (and sensation) of his left kneecap being shattered as well had him convulsing, tears streaming down his face at the terrible agony.

            “No, Grace! No! No! Please stop!”

            “Wayne,” she lowered her voice, sneering. “If you don’t shut up immediately, I _will_ cut out your tongue.” He attempted to re-catch his breath, even with his pelvic area and kneecaps on fire, but Grace stabbing her scalpel in-between his ribs had him gasping for breath. Unintentionally, it also had his bladder releasing, which coated Grace in a spectacular spray of urine. She narrowed her eyes and he rushed to apologize, the strong scent of ammonia forcing him to take deeper breaths. “Do you think Craig took pity on me, even after I pleaded with him to not kill me? Do you think Dan took pity on me, when he attempted to kill us both? Did _you_ , Wayne Rigsby, take pity on me when we thought Lisbon was going to make us choose between our relationship and _our_ careers?” She grabbed tight to the handle on the scalpel, obviously pissed-off, and yanked the sharp blade down his ribcage—snapping one of the ribs in half in turn. “No! You wanted me to take the fall, all so you could continue to pleasure yourself while you imagined me on my ass!”

            Barely conscious, Rigsby attempted to plead his case again. “I’m so sorry, Grace…”

            “You’re not sorry enough,” she interrupted him, by yanking the scalpel from his wounded abdomen and forcing him to gag, “but you _will_ be.” Grace said nothing else to him, before she jabbed the secondary syringe into his chest. “I warned you, Wayne, and this is exactly what happens when you don’t listen.”

            His eyelids grew heavy again and just as her fingers had forced open his mouth, he had already succumbed to unconsciousness again.

 

::::

 

            “You’ve been no fun today,” he heard Grace complain, as his vision cleared (again) to reveal Grace’s pouting expression. “But no worries, Wayne. I know you’re just as terrified as I am to be alone, especially since your mother and father abandoned you early on.” Rigsby slowly blinked at her, his mouth parting slightly. How in the world had she known? When he had applied for the SCU, after years of dealing with arson, he had told Lisbon he didn’t have much interaction with his parents—not the truth, that his mother had been long gone and his father, Steve Rigsby, was a damned psychopath. He hadn’t even admitted his complex family history to Grace, regardless of their romantic entanglements. “You’ll never be alone again, I promise!” She spun on her heels to face the rabbit and mouse-masked occupants again, who both sat too eerily still for his peace of mind. “Isn’t that right, Craig? Dan?” She stepped behind both men, her fingers daintily removing the rubber masks only to reveal the grotesque and patchwork faces of the _very_ dead Craig O’Laughlin and Dan Hollenback.

            Rigsby squeezed his eyes shut. Grace (or someone associated closely with her) had stolen O’Laughlin’s body from the morgue, a little detail Jane would probably figure out because he was, well, Jane. Even more incredible, however, Grace had exhumed Dan Hollenback’s decaying body from the Sacramento Cemetery—the same man, who Lisbon had killed nearly four years ago to protect Jane and Grace from an early grave.

            “Forgive them, Wayne. They haven’t been talkative in _quite_ some time now.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “Something you have in common with them too now.” His nostrils flared and he opened his mouth to argue with her, but no intelligent sounds rolled forth. In fact, his continued grunts and murmurs reminded him of a zombie from any movie or television show he had seen within the last few years. Grace had _removed_ his tongue. “I warned you,” she offered as an explanation, the moment he managed to shut his mouth.  “You refused to remain quiet, so I did what I had to. We’re not quite done here, after all.” He opened his eyes to stare at once again, only to find her holding his severed tongue in-between her ring finger and thumb. “They say tongue is extremely high in fat; a delicacy of sorts.” He watched her tilt her head backwards, before she dropped _his_ tongue into her mouth. Grace made a sound of pure delight, her jaw moving back and forth, before she smacked her lips. “Delicious. _Absolutely_ delicious.”

            Rigsby flinched. Why wasn’t he dead? Or passed out further? He eyed the syringe in her other hand tentatively and her smile nearly astounded him. Not out of admiration, of course, but out of _sheer panic_. He had no doubts he was going to die, but still, it didn’t make any of this easier. “Oh this?” She glanced down at the empty syringe in her hand. “It’s a little concoction of my own, just to help keep you alert.” He watched her shrug. “I’ve also added a dulling agent into the mixture. You passing out every three minutes is getting old fast.”

            If he could, he would have snorted at her. It wasn’t exactly _his_ fault that he kept falling unconscious, regardless of Grace’s insanity. The human body was only meant to handle so much and his, at Grace’s hands, had obviously suffered beyond the breaking point.

            “Don’t be _such_ a downer, Wayne,” Grace interrupted his thoughts, holding the scalpel again. “You are, after all, making me _so very happy_.” She approached him and using the medical tool, Grace made a long vertical incision starting at his chest, just to right above his pelvic bone. “You didn’t feel that, right?”

            He _felt_ sick, as he watched Grace’s hand plunge into his abdomen. It was a surreal situation to glance downwards, only to find Grace’s expression knitted into one of concentration, as she rooted around in his abdomen; almost treating him as if he were a grab bag of sorts. Beyond the gutting and everything else though, it felt even odder to feel nothing as he seeped blood from his abdomen, covering them both in the dark, warmth of sanguine. Rigsby heard the redhead mutter to herself, before she held out his large intestines.

            “I should have thought this through,” he heard her say, before she turned to plop his intestines down around Craig’s broad shoulders, splattering the corpse in blood. “Oh well,” she giggled. “No use in crying over spilt organs.” She said nothing else for a few moments, as she worked to remove his organs—but not before, flashing each of them in his general direction and then, tossing the lesser organs aside. He had the feeling that if the restraint hadn’t been around his neck, and in turn, if he had held the ability to glance downwards toward the floor; he would have caught a glimpse of his organs, just remaining in heaps at her feet.

            “Don’t have the stomach for all of this, do you?” She asked him, chuckling, as she applied pressure to his stomach, which she had proudly shown off moments prior. “It’s okay. I don’t know many people who do.”

 

            Rigsby said nothing, as his eyes had already rolled back in his skull—rendering him unconscious for the third and final time.

::::

 

            From next to him, Grace tsked. She had honestly hoped Rigsby would have lasted far longer than an hour. However, she had extremely high hopes for Kimball Cho and Teresa Lisbon, who would soon find themselves in Rigsby’s predicament. Humming to herself, Grace pressed one of her fingers against Rigsby’s neck (after removing the restraint) only to find a faint pulse.

            “Don’t say I didn’t show mercy, unlike you,” she muttered to him, before she slit his throat in one swift movement; and ignoring the squirt of hot blood from his artery, coating her once more, she continued, “I’m not a monster, so you know. I just don’t appreciate being tossed aside, something I thought _you_ would understand more than anyone else.”

            Rigsby gurgled in response, blood seeping from his throat, before he was gone.

 

::::

 

            Grace smiled widely as she happily returned from her kitchen with a melon baller in one hand and a hacksaw in the other.

            “Can’t say I’ve ever been excited for Halloween,” she absent-mindedly commented, her attention on shoving the hacksaw into flesh and bone. “Or that I’ve enjoyed a good pumpkin carving, but there’s _always_ room for new traditions—especially now that you’ll be with me forever.” Once she had removed the top of Rigsby’s skull, mindful of his luscious hair, she used her melon baller to scrape out Rigsby’s brain and eyes, separating the organs into two separate Tupperware containers for later. Removing a votive candle from her vanity, Grace dropped the unscented candle into his skull and used a barbeque lighter to cause a flame to burst forth, forcing his eye sockets and the inside of his skull to flicker with light. She stepped backwards to admire her handiwork, before replacing the top of his skull with a soft smile of admiration.

            Her eyes quickly shot to the seat next to Craig, where Rigsby’s decapitated body remained. Later, she would sew his head back onto his neck and attach yet another mask, so nobody could see the eerie glow from behind his eye sockets. 

 

            For Rigsby, she was considering the mask of a gryphon when her cellphone rang. Next to Rigsby’s stomach, she gingerly reached for her phone (covered in stomach bile) and placed it on speaker.

            “Van Pelt.”

            “Grace, it’s Lisbon,” Lisbon answered, forcing Grace to smile brightly. She _had_ wondered how long it would take, before her boss had called, wondering on the whereabouts of Rigsby. Turns out, twelve hours is Lisbon’s turnaround time. “I know you’ve asked for the rest of this week off, but have you heard from Rigsby at all today?”

            “No, I haven’t,” she honestly replied. Rigsby had stopped talking, twenty minutes before the start of the new day. “Why, boss? Is everything okay?”

            “I don’t want you to be alarmed, Van Pelt, but he still hasn’t shown up to work and I can’t get ahold of him. His phone keeps going to voicemail.”

            Grace took a deep breath, forcing herself to tear up. “Do you…do you think he’s okay?”

            “He’s fine,” Lisbon reassured her, although, she didn’t sound _too_ assured herself. “I’m sure of it, okay?” Grace choked back a sob, suddenly smirking that her acting classes _had_ come in handy, as she heard Lisbon take a deep breath herself. “Are you going to be okay? Should we see about getting you a return visit with Dr. Anders?”

            Grace grimaced. Why was everything about always seeing a psychologist? She wasn’t insane! Or hurting! Couldn’t a person be allowed to grieve without having the entire justice system involved? To hide her displeasure with Lisbon’s question, Grace sniffled. “I’m just tired of being alone, boss.” She anxiously waited for Lisbon to tell her goodbye, so she could return to her fun day, but instead, Lisbon obviously had no plans to leave her so vulnerable.

            “How about I stop by your apartment tonight, on my way home, to update you?”

            “You’ll bring food from O’Malley’s?”

            Lisbon didn’t miss a beat. “I thought you hated Irish food.”

            “I suddenly have a craving for it.” She couldn’t help but smile at the double entendre, as Lisbon agreed (abet reluctantly) to her request. Lisbon, it seemed, would be attending her tea party far earlier than she had originally anticipated, much to Grace’s delight—and she already had the _perfect_ mask picked out for Lisbon too. She wouldn’t give the Queen of Hearts to just _anyone_ truthfully. “…later tonight, alright?”

            “Yeah, boss,” She told her, holding Rigsby’s head in-between her hands with a fond smile. “I’ll see you later tonight. I’m definitely looking forward to it.”

 

 


End file.
